


After His Own Image

by Pandir



Series: 1000 crescents AU [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 1000 Crescents AU, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Self-Destruction, also very vague concepts of space magic, ascended!Ford, be warned for darker themes and implied character harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 16:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17410022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/pseuds/Pandir
Summary: After Ford has ascended to something close to godhood in the aftermath of Weirdmageddon, he finds that immortality is a rather lonely state of being. Eventually, he conducts a line of experiments to rectify a fundamental flaw of his reality - to have his brother back at his side.





	After His Own Image

**Author's Note:**

> _but i guess being lonely fits me_   
>  _and you were made for begging ‘stay’_

He starts with creatures. Simply replicating the specimen he has collected is not difficult, but he wants more than mere copies. So Ford combines, he replaces, he alters, yet the creatures don’t live long until their instability causes them to fall apart.

The life Ford gives them is doomed from the very beginning.

Still, he is not ready to give up just yet. Over the millennia, it has become second nature to him to form matter and to project his will on it. His dimension is orderly and well-structured and full of wonders, just as Ford intended it to be. Yet Ford has never been prone to complacency, and he decides it is time to tackle something more challenging. The ultimate challenge, maybe: to create life where nothing was before. A fitting crowning achievement for his labors that are guided not only by curiosity, but also one primary goal: to use his power for something grander than Bill's mindless, graceless destruction.

Creating a new species, Ford theorizes, may have been too ambitious as a first step. His first subject should be something he can construct with utmost care, down to the very last molecule, and it has to be imbued with his will, connected to him at its core so he can sustain it.

As soon as he formulates that thought, Ford knows what the subject has to be. It occurs to him that this is what this project has been from its conception on, he just had not fully realized it yet. It was not just the urge to create that drove him - a small flaw in the fabric of this very reality had to be rectified.

Of course, Ford could simply take samples from across the multiverse as resource, alternate versions of his twin brother he has collected and keeps in cryostasis for study. To study himself, to be precise, and how his nature, his essence differed from its human, mortal origins. Yet the specimen of Stanley Pines in his laboratory are not suited to be used in his current project, not only due to their physical condition leaving a lot to be desired thanks to the questionable lifestyle his brother always, inevitably seems drawn to. More importantly, using them for his experiment would entirely defeat its purpose.

His goal should be to craft something that is not inherently flawed.

So Ford starts with a blank canvas, a mold to shape as he pleases. Giving it form is an almost effortless task compared to the endless studies he had to conduct for his previous attempts. Firstly, Ford uses his own blood, his own cells to grow it, which bend to his will more readily and seem to naturally assume their intended shape. Secondly, it is a form Ford is intimately familiar with. There’s no further reference needed as he carves the curve of his own jawline, his own cheekbones out of matter that forms like molten wax beneath his touch.

Pleased with the first results, his fingers ghost over the mouth so eerily, so comfortingly like his. It is not the physical form that Ford will have to improve on.

Stan, in all his iterations, is inevitably riddled with weaknesses. Always a cheat, a fraud, a liar and a disappointment, a criminal with a startling lack of moral integrity. Or as it turned out, with no understanding of any larger principle _at all_.

There’s a tremor in Ford’s hand as he brushes over the skin, and bitterness rises like bile in his throat.

Because _really,_ after all that Ford has done - leaving his brother to rot, summoning a creature of chaos and destruction, even bringing about the apocalypse - this one impulsive act, so entirely inconsequential on any larger scale, was the one thing Stan chose to hold against him, to never forgive him for until his dying breath?

Ford scoffs and hides the project’s face under a piece of white cloth before he gets back to work. He needs a calm mind and a steady hand.

*

**Experiment #01**

Finally, when all is done, Ford reaches deep inside his own glowing swirling core, the gaping eye of potent matter parting his chest, and infuses his project with its fiery heat. Then he carefully puts his hands at the sides of its face, pressing his index fingers to the temples. Blue fire blossoms on his fingertips and breaches the skin, flickering as a spark in the blank eyes of the subject. The muscles twitch, and then the chest heaves under the first, greedy breath.

It is like looking into a blank mirror as the subject’s face reflects his own surge of recognition.

Its lips form one word, and the fondness in the smile rips through him and leaves him cleft open. The subject destabilizes before Ford finds his voice.

Still, it feels like a first small success.

Ford returns back to the project with a newfound excitement, eager to hone his craft and eliminate any imprecision.

*

**Experiment #30**

His brother grins at him and Ford's heart is seized by an echo of a long-forgotten emotion, overshadowed by pride. He can feel he got it right this time, and it is his proudest moment, his biggest achievement.  
  
Ford has eventually settled for a younger form as it seemed more suited to his purposes. Besides, a face unwrinkled and mostly unblemished is more fitting for a being that has, in a manner of speaking, just been freshly born. To Ford’s satisfaction, it hasn’t taken him much effort to work from memory alone - Stan looks like he just stepped out of his mind, his hair messily slicked back, his sleeves rolled up and his round chin even sporting a few pimples. Ford has always had an eye for detail.

Now, his creation stands high on the dunes of the beach, right where Ford usually likes to idly spent a few recreational hours contemplating wave patterns. Stan puts his hands in his pockets, takes a deep breath and exhales with a sigh as he stares at the sea.

“That’s my favorite place to be”, he says and he sounds almost  wistful. “But it wouldn’t be right without you.”

When Stan turns to shoot him a smile, Ford smiles back, but something about it is stale. Stan notices, of course. He has always read him like a book.

Stan shifts uncomfortably, his eyes flickering to the sand at his feet and back to Ford. “Sorry, that- that was a pretty selfish thing to say.”

The expression on Ford’s face hardens.  
  
“Listen, I- I know I screwed up. A lot”, Stan says, and there’s a vehemence behind his words that borders on desperation. “But I’m sorry, Stanford, I really am!”

Ford has been wondering now for so long what he would have done if faced with an apology like this. He has always pictured himself as not easily forgiving, but magnanimous enough to give his misguided brother a chance to prove himself. Now, Ford looks at Stan’s rueful face and it all resurfaces – the bitterness, the betrayal, the anger – with such overwhelming force, Ford can’t even speak. His fists are clenched tightly, knuckles pale, and he is livid.

“Ford, you gotta believe me, I didn’t mean to-”

The immediateness of his revulsion takes Ford by surprise. When Stan steps closer to him, reaching for him, Ford hits him square on the jaw. Stan stumbles back and stares at him, wide-eyed and visibly shaken, but Ford can’t feel pity.

“Please”, Stan insists, and he looks truly repentant with tears in his eyes and the reddening bruise on his jaw. “I’m so sorry, please, I mean it, I really am”, Stan repeats over and over, like a broken record, his hands twitching helplessly at his sides.

Ford’s stomach roils with disgust.

“Don’t _lie_ , Stanley.”

With his face pressed into the sand and Ford’s knee between his shoulder blades, Stan is much quieter. It is oddly mesmerizing to watch how Stan’s flesh slowly dissolves into the sand. His bones remain, white and clean.

Ford buries his mistake by the sea.

*

**Experiment #157**

“Sixer.” Stan looks at him like he wouldn’t want to be with anyone else, like Ford was all Stan needed in this world. “Damn it, I miss you, I missed you so much.”

It doesn’t feel as shallow as it should. Stan means it, whole-heartedly, and that somehow makes it worse. “Just take me back.”

His hands are on Ford’s sleeves, he tugs and pulls at him in a way that is too insistent, too crowding.

“Truth is, I can’t make it without you, I’m _nothing_ without you”, Stan is clinging to him now, fingers digging into Ford’s arms and clutching his sleeves more tightly when Ford grabs his wrists to tear him off. “Don’t leave me alone”, Stan begs, and it’s grating, irritating, “don’t leave me, don’t--”

Ford pushes him into the wet sand where the waves break at the shore until the ocean fills his lungs. His drowned noises are pleading, like his fingers clinging to Ford’s wrists so tightly they draw blood.

Ford's hands are on his throat, and finally, mercifully, Stan stops. As he gags wordlessly, there is hurt in his eyes, but still no trace of resentment.

Ford has enough for the two of them.

*

**Experiment #189**

Stan kisses him, wet and full of need, and Ford does not know if this means he got something finally right this time, or fundamentally wrong. All he knows is that he craves the warmth of his hands, the hot breath inside his mouth.

“It’s gonna be alright, you’ll see”, Stan says breathlessly against Ford’s lips, “It’s just us now.” His hand finds Ford’s, and his fingers close around it, squeezing it reassuringly. “And it’s gonna be just the two of us, forever.”

He can’t say “I promise”, because Ford is above him now, covering his mouth with his own. Stan is writhing beneath him, his feet digging into the warm dry sand, as Ford makes him spill wordless noises.

Neither of them finds release.

As Ford reaches for Stan’s hand, his fingers don't hold onto him, and Ford closes his eyes.

When the flood comes, the body will be gone.

*

**Experiment #501**

There’s a peculiar wetness in Stan’s eyes when he tries his hardest to smile up to Ford as carefree as he can muster. He pats the ground next to him.

“Let’s stay here for a while”, he says a bit too casually. “We don’t have to talk. I just wanna enjoy the view with you.”

That is unexpected. Out of curiosity, Ford decides to humor him. So he sits down on the sand with him, resting his hands in his lap and looking out to the grey, restless sea under an overcast sky. A cold wind is coming in from the coast and its chill creeps under Ford’s coat, but he does not mind, not yet. At his side, Stan puts his arms around himself, his knees drawn close to his body.

They sit in silence, as Stan requested, and there is something profoundly relieving about the absence of conflict, of any intense emotion. Stan’s presence is strangely unobtrusive as they both watch the waves roll in under tall clouds to break on the beach in quiet unison.

Maybe not talking is a more productive approach after all.

Then Ford hears a sharp intake of breath. Stan seems to shiver in the wind that is whistling over the dunes, but Ford notices how Stan’s fingers tighten their grip on his arms as he watches the swelling waves of the flood slowly, subtly getting higher.

“Stanley?” When Stan does not react, his eyes glued to a spot in the distance, Ford reaches out to him. As soon as Ford’s fingers so much as brush his shoulder, Stan jerks back as if he’s been hit, his expression tense.

Ford frowns slightly, and all of Stan’s facade drops immediately.

“I don't wanna die, Stanford”, he blurts out with a sudden raw, fearful intensity. Then, when Ford just stares rather confusedly at him, he swallows and adds in a softer, more beseeching tone, “I don't wanna join the others in the sea.”

It doesn’t make sense. Stan should not have any knowledge, any memories beyond his own existence. And while his creations last longer now that Ford does not lose his temper so quickly, they are still short-lived. How Stan can be aware of the fate of his predecessors at all is an intriguing metaphysical question, but in the end, there is just one explanation. Ford must have let something of his subconscious slip into his latest subject, somehow.

By now, this line of experiments is taking its toll on him. Every time Ford feels he is making progress, he is faced with another oversight, another flaw. It is his stubbornness alone that doesn’t allow him to give up.

“You can't live without me”, Ford explains, his voice just a little bit too forceful for it to sound quite as matter-of-factly as he wants it to. “But you are nothing but another failed experiment. When I dispose of you, I'm being merciful.”

Stan laughs, it’s short and frantic. “You can’t mean that, Sixer!”

“Fine, I will give you a chance”, Ford proposes and rises to his feet, adjusting his coat. “Go on. Get up.”

Hastily, Stan scrambles on his feet, all too eager not to invoke Ford’s anger.

“Now hit me”, Ford orders him, and Stan’s eyes widen. There’s no resolution in his stance, instead he helplessly clenches his fists.

“You know I can’t.” He sounds so young, so defeated. So unlike his brash, hot-headed brother. “I’m just what you want me to be.”

Ford knows that he is everything but. Still, he finds himself giving in.

“Then be gentle, Stanley.”

 

A breeze rustles through the stalks of beach grass as Stan guides Ford to sit with him between the dunes. Then Stan is on his lap, and it’s remarkable how well he pretends that there’s nothing wrong when he carefully smooths the curls of hair on Ford’s neck. Still, there’s something desperate in the kisses Stan presses right beneath Ford’s jawline.

Stan’s fingers caress his neck slowly and soothingly, his breath warm on Ford’s skin, and Ford convulses under the touch.

“Ford”, Stan murmurs, “Sixer, are you alright?”

There is no answer. Instead, Ford finds himself shaking in his brother’s arms, while Stan is awkwardly trying to soothe him, unable to understand what he is doing is worse than a fist to his face.

Stan embraces him, tightly, and his chest is warm as he presses against him.

“Just let me be with you”, Stan says softly, imploringly, as if he can sense Ford’s weakness, “I’ll be here for you. I’ll do anything for you.”

It’s always the same superficial affections, repeated endlessly - but this time, Stan’s fingers tense on Ford’s neck and he is afraid, so afraid to join his failed predecessors.

“Please”, is all Stan breathes in a tense whisper, “Don’t.”

In Stan’s absence, Ford wraps his coat more tightly around his shoulders to shield himself against the chill wind. He does not have the decency to cry.

*

**Experiment #502**

Fundamentally, it doesn’t change a thing.

Maybe this could even a chance to progress - any change carries potential. The next time, Ford is not moved by Stan’s pleading. Instead, he offers Stan a very simple choice. If he doesn’t want to die, he will have to do as Ford says. In any case, it will be insightful to see what is stronger - Stan’s will to live or his inability to harm him.

Stan raises his fist, his trembling fingers clenched tightly, holding Ford by the lapels of his coat. He hesitates, his face scrunched in what looks like a painful struggle, then takes a swing. And for a split second, Ford braces for the impact, for the ugly noise of hard knuckles colliding with his jaw to send him stumbling.

The actual punch barely registers. As Ford lets his fingers run over his jaw, it is mostly out of reflex.

Stan raises his fist again, this time with no hesitation, and his next hit catches Ford’s lip. It stings quite a bit, but it’s not split. Ford tongues at it briefly, looking at Stan expectantly. The following punches seem to come easier, like a dam has been broken, and Stan hits him until he finally slumps over, panting and clinging to him. But when Stan tries to straighten himself, to take another swing, his resolution is wavering. It’s the disappointment in Ford’s sigh that breaks it. Pity, he has landed few decent hits.

“It’s not fair!”, Stan throws his hands in the air in defeat and frustration. “You just want to make me do what you can't!”

Ford’s face hurts as he snorts, but it’s not more than dull ache, a fleeting sharp stinging pain in his joints. Any damage will be mended before it will even be visible. “Stanley, you could never truly harm me.”

And right here, right now, this will always be true. The boy before him, close to tears even though he has barely even bruised him, could not be more removed from the cold anger in the wrinkled eyes of his brother that Ford recalls so well, the grip of his gnarled hands on his shotgun steady despite the grim fury in his words.

Stan wipes his tears, defiantly repeating his words. “This isn't fair, Ford, I didn't ask for this.”

“Then go.” This one has earned himself a reward, at least, Ford decides, as he presses his fingers to the bones of his jaw. “Go as far away as you can.”

Stan barely seems to be able to believe his luck. Tentatively, he takes a few steps away from the sea. Then, halfway up the dunes, he turns around. “Promise to not make any others”, he yells a bit too loudly for the distance.

“Not while you’re around”, Ford assures him, holding his hands behind his back as he turns to the sea. It’s a cloudy day, the grey water reflecting only specks of sunlight that dance on the waves.

Ford does not have to look - he knows Stan won’t make it far. After all, he’s not designed to leave him.

For the first time, Ford truly feels that this is going nowhere, that he keeps moving in circles. It's not enough to make him stop trying.

*

**Experiment #1087**

“I'm not Stan”, Stan says as soon as he opens his eyes, staring at his own hands in utter confusion before he looks up to Ford, “who am I?”

Ford’s insistence does not appease him, and he repeats it with rising dread, his eyes wide.

His creation dissolves, eventually, but the question remains unsolved.

*

**Experiment #???**

They keep dissolving into existential confusion and it takes Ford too long to realize that this is not a flaw. It is an insight he has been missing.

Stan looks him in the eyes, mirroring his searching gaze with a more desperate, bewildered expression. Because that is what he is, ultimately. And incomplete, imperfect reflection. It falls into place then, comes down to one truth Ford has been overlooking all along: All they are, and inevitably remain, is nothing but parts of him.

As if Ford can finally see him clearly, Stan’s face and silhouette shift ever so slightly and Ford finds himself staring back into his own blue eyes. Face to face with a younger image of himself, still untouched by the highs and lows of a life of dedication and austerity, Ford would not have recognized himself if it wasn’t for the number of fingers.  
  
In strange wonder, he watches his boyish self fall to his knees and sift through the sand with growing dread, through the layers of finely ground bones that have been washed to the shore. Ford briefly wonders how many it has been, how many centuries, how many failures.

“How could you do this?”, the younger Stanford asks, finally, and there’s a quiver in his voice that sounds so strangely, earnestly upset.

Ford does not understand why. In the end, he has just been doing this to himself. Something like relief seems more appropriate to him than this horrified response.

But still, the boy’s voice trembles with rage as Ford just looks on impassively. “Why do you keep trying to kill the part of you that cares about him?”

“That’s not what this is.” As if he could - he would without hesitation, rip all that is suffocating him out of his chest, tear it away and lay it bare to toss the quivering mess of it into the depths of the sea. He should probably be glad the choice is not his.

The boy’s gaze narrows. “What do you get from this, then? Does it feel good to toy with doomed children, all powerful as you are?”

As he gets up, a wave of unsteadiness ripples through his form, yet he does not come apart. Instead, his vessel ages rapidly - his jaw broadens, the bags under his eyes deepen, his skin wrinkles just slightly and his hair grays in quick succession. When his copy stands before him, Ford looks into his own old and ageless face. A bit more rugged, maybe, with his ear still intact, but now unmistakably him.

“Eons of self-imposed misery, and you still take it out on him”, he scoffs, “What would you call that, if not pathetic?”  
  
Smashing his own face in feels satisfying in a way nothing has felt for an eternity. Within seconds, they are on the white ground, grappling for the upper hand. They still when Ford’s hands are on his throat. His pulse is slightly elevated under his fingers, yet he doesn’t squeeze hard enough to strangle himself - not quite.  
  
“Dangerous know-it-all”, Ford pants through gritted teeth and pulls himself closer without hesitation.

“Self-absorbed narcissist”, Ford gives back in between hard kisses.

“Loner”, Ford sneers, satisfied to taste blood on his lips.

“Freak”, Ford breathes as he grinds against himself, biting into the skin at his neck hard enough to bruise. He laughs dryly against his throat. _That_ is putting it far too kindly.

Eventually, his reflection starts falling apart, Ford’s fingers still on his throat, their grip slack and indecisive.

“I can't believe you couldn’t do to yourself what you did to him”, Ford says as the lines of his form dissolve. He doesn’t sound incredulous at all.

Ford remains, sitting on the dry sand, his eyes fixed on the point where the waves hit the beach.

***

Bill finds Ford sitting at the shore line on a bright, sunny day, digging his fingers through the white sand in measured movements, and there’s something wistful, almost affectionate about it.

"OOH, I LIKE WHAT YOU DID WITH THE PLACE", Bill's grating voice disturbs the lulling periodic rushing of the waves. "ALWAYS THOUGHT THE BEACH WAS A BIT TACKY, BUT THE BONES ARE A NICE TOUCH."

With his cane, Bill pokes at something in the wet sand that is glistening in blueish and green hues in the sunlight. It takes Ford a moment to realize that it is a piece of bone that must have buried in the sand and now has been washed ashore again, partly opalized over time due to the unique qualities of his dimension.

"MIGHT AS WELL GIVE IT A PROPER NAME - SOMETHING MORE FITTING. SOMETHING THAT ADDS MORE FLAIR TO IT, SOME DRAMA! HOW ABOUT BONESHARD BEACH?"

Ford stares at the piece of bone Bill has kicked up with his cane as it splashes back into the shallow water. How long has he been here? 

"WAY TOO LONG", Bill offers and lets his eye wander over the white sand, over the remains of the countless failed experiments. "HEH, I HAD THE DECENCY TO SPARE YOUR BROTHER'S LIFE, AND NOW LOOK AT YOU!"

"If that is what you want to call it", Ford snaps back. "I’m pretty sure decency had little to do with it." He curses himself for not biting his tongue, because Bill immediately floats up to face him, all too ready to rise to the bait.

"NO, NO, YOU GOTTA HELP ME OUT HERE, STANFORD. MAYBE MY MEMORY'S NOT WHAT IT USED BE", Bill taps one finger beneath his eye, pretending to think. "BUT WASN'T IT _YOU_ WHO MADE THAT DEAL? YOUR FAMILY'S SAFETY FOR THE REST OF THE EARTH?"

"Can it, Bill." This is such a worn-out and tired topic, and Ford is not in the mood.

There has always been only a very small circle of people he has wasted any thoughts on. Not that they necessarily deserved it, after rejecting him so absolutely and throwing him out of his own home, but he was above vindictive pettiness. His goal has never been to harm his family, no matter whether they ever truly appreciated the nature of Ford's magnanimity, that only _his_ mercy had spared them from the mindless destruction. Though it does still sting that even though Stan had been well aware who he owed his life to, Ford never received as much as a mere ‘thank you’.

Ford grinds his teeth. “Ungrateful”, he mutters.

"EXACTLY. LET'S NOT FORGET WHO GRANTED ALL THIS TO YOU!", Bill readily takes the cue, apparently only spurred on by Ford's dismissive attitude. "YOU EVEN GOT ALL THE SPOILS! IMMORTALITY, POWERS BEYOND YOUR IMAGINATION--" Bill demonstratively starts listing them off on his fingers, but Ford is barely listening.

Stan certainly never wondered what had become of his brother before Ford took his fate in his own hands and chose to rise above his misery, and Stan didn’t bother to make amends after, even though Ford could have granted him safety and so much more. Maybe even forgiveness.

Yet Stan chose to do nothing of worth. Instead, he resigned himself to his fate: to struggle in a pointless, futile battle and to eventually succumb to his own mortality. Maybe for the first time, Ford wonders whether Stan has been buried by his grandniece, somewhere in a dimension long taken over by Bill, his white, washed out bones scattered in the dry dirt.

Ford’s fingers close to a fist. Small shards among the finely ground sand pierce the skin of his palm.  

"AND THIS IS WHAT YOU GIVE ME IN RETURN?", Bill interrupts his line of thoughts with a twirl of his cane to poke it at Ford's nose, "I LET YOU OUT OF MY SIGHT FOR A FEW EONS, AND SUDDENLY, ALL YOU HAVE EYES FOR IS YOUR LITTLE PET PROJECT." He gestures to the beach surrounding them before his arms come to rest on his side and Ford would have maybe bought his accusatory act, if he didn't catch the mocking undertone with ease by now. More than anything, Bill is trying to get a rise out of him. "I KNEW YOU WERE A SQUARE, STANFORD, BUT AN ETERNITY OF SULKING AND MOPING IS BORING EVEN BY YOUR STANDARDS. DON'T TELL ME YOU SACRIFICED YOUR HOME DIMENSION TO PLAY IN YOU LITTLE SANDBOX AND WALLOW IN SELF-PITY?"

Ford does not bother correcting him, even though sitting in the remnants of his failure seems like a very appropriate place of self-pity to him. Besides, Bill should know he has barely ever concerned himself with the fate of his own dimension and its inhabitants - they mattered little compared to what he readily sold them for, and even less in face of his own plight. He hasn’t wept a single tear for them.

In fact, he has never once doubted his choice. A brilliant mind like his would have been wasted on a life of misery, shame and meaninglessness. How could he not have seized this singular opportunity to rise to near infinite knowledge and endless possibilities of eternal study beyond all human limitations? After all, one thing remains certain: his scientific insights, the scope of his experiments and his achievements, are far greater than what the human race could ever have hoped to amount to.

Ford’s gaze follows the slope of the beach, contemplating the fine lines of wind and waves left in the white sand. Of course, Bill fails to understand entirely what this project of his could have been - his crowning achievement and a testament to his genius and skill: to create life, when all Bill is capable of is to mock, to corrupt and destroy.

And in that regard, his project hasn’t been a failure, at least not entirely. Sustaining a life form of his own making in his area of influence, possibly even beyond it, is a remarkable feat with untapped potential uses. Ford thinks of a bright smile beaming at him, of warm fingers carding through his hair and a mouth wet and hot on his own.

Maybe there is something to be salvaged from this.

Bill groans and rolls his eye pointedly and very exaggeratedly. “YOU KNOW I LOVE TO HEAR MYSELF TALK, FORDSY, BUT THIS GETTING RIDICULOUS. BE A DEAR, USE YOUR WORDS. I’M SURE YOU REMEMBER HOW _TALKING_ WORKS - YOU FLAP YOUR WET DUMB FLESH TRAP-”

Ford gives him a pointed look. "I’m not here to entertain you, Bill."

Frustrated, Bill lets himself flop into the sand beside him, his black thin legs sticking out in a strangely adorable fashion. "WELL, WHO ELSE IS GOING TO?"

If nothing else, it's satisfying to see the cheerful, taunting mask slipping. Apparently destroying worlds, wreaking havoc and getting wasted _does_ get old eventually.

 _Misery loves company_ , Ford's mind offers. He scoffs at the implications.

“However, you are right about one thing”, he says, instead. He does not bother to look at Bill’s display of mock surprise - something else has caught his eye.

In the shallow water of the retreating waves, the light reflects in iridescent hues of blue and green on shards of washed out bones stuck in the sand. There is a strange beauty to it that Ford cannot deny.

“It _is_ a nice touch.”

 

***

**Experiment #01**

Small, delicate bare feet run over the smooth sand before they reach the water’s edge. Tentatively, the boy steps forward into the shallow water of the retreating waves, balancing as he takes one careful step after another. It’s a warm day, the sea is unusually calm and there is only a light breeze tousling the boy’s brown hair and catching in his white gowns. Where memory has failed him, Ford has taken liberties with the design and he finds that he is pleased with the result.

Ford watches the quiet delight in the boy’s features as he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground below his feet, mesmerized by the flowing patterns of the waves and the occasional hint of color glinting between the wet sand.

He bends down, picking something up. “Great Uncle Ford”, he calls as he comes running towards him, a bright smile on his lips. “Look what I found!”

Ford bows down to have a closer look, one hand on the boy’s small shoulder. In the boy's hands lies a beautifully smoothed out bit of opal, shining in different hues in the sunlight.

“These are actually extremely rare”, Ford tells him, and the boy beams with pride, his blue eyes shining as he looks up at his creator, “This beach just happens to have unusual conditions.”

He gives the boy a gentle shove. “Go on, I’m sure you can find more if you only look hard enough.”

“Will you tell me about how they are formed?”, the boy asks eagerly, only taking a few steps, reluctant to part just yet.

Ford smiles. “Of course, Mason.”

When the boy walks through the ankle-deep water with newfound eagerness, his attention now completely on his task, Ford’s smile does not fade. He thinks fondly of how he used to go to the beach early in the morning with his brother when they were children, looking for hidden treasures and traces of mythical sea monsters.

Later, when they sit on the beach waiting for the stars to come out and Mason shows Ford the interesting shells and remnants of sea creatures he has found, Ford tells him about the formation of opalized fossils, about the unique qualities of bone and teeth. There is one thing, however, that Ford does not mention.

The boy listens intently, resting his head against Ford’s shoulder and his hand on Ford’s, huddling closer as the dusk settles about them. Shivering, Mason digs his toes in the warm upper layer of the white, finely ground sand, blissfully unaware that he is not the first of Ford’s creations to wander this beach.


End file.
